Chapter 1 Normal life

Author's Note

This story is written using a mix of first-person and third-person points of view.

Main characters like Isabella and Damien share their personal experiences in first-person pov, while scenes involving other characters (such as Marissa, Aria, Matteo and others) are told in third-person pov for a broader view of events.

Let's begin the story.

ISABELLA'S pov

"You're a coward, Diego! A useless, weak man with no spine!"

I froze mid-scrub, the brush in my hand hovering over the kitchen tiles. Here we go again.

I let out a quiet sigh, shaking my head as I continued

scrubbing the already spotless kitchen tiles for the third time that morning. My hands were raw from the chemicals, my knees aching from kneeling on the hard floor, but I knew better than to stop before the clock struck noon.

I tried to pretend that the shouting coming from the living room wasn't slowly grinding into my bones.

They were always like this.

Father never shouted. He always sounded tired, like he didn't even have the strength to argue anymore. But Lady Marissa? Her voice could tear through stone.

"I only did what you asked, Marissa," Father's voice tried to keep up. "You said we should sell the company, sell all our luxurious assets, everything. You said it would save us from that debt."

"And we did sell everything!" she snapped. " You agreed! not like I sold it without your concern..

"Yes, I agreed-because I trusted you! I thought you meant well!" There was pain in his voice. "And then what? You used the money for shopping, luxury, things we didn't need-while everything we had disappeared!"

I paused with the brush in my hand, gripping it tighter. So that was it. Again. The same fight in different words.

"You're unbelievable," Lady Marissa hissed. "So now it's my fault? I'm the reason we're broke?"

"No, that's not what I meant. I didn't say that, Marissa-just listen to me-"

But she never did. She never wanted to listen.

A few seconds later, her heels clacked furiously toward the front door. Then-

SLAM!

I flinched. The silence that followed felt heavier than the shouting.

I knelt there, hand still on the brush, heart thudding. Another storm. Another mess.

Just another day in the Lancaster house.

"Isabella!" My stepsister, Aria's shrill voice cut through the air like a knife. "Have you ironed my dress yet?"

I flinched, my grip on the cleaning brush tightening. Of course, I had. I had ironed all three of her dresses before sunrise, just as she demanded. But saying so wouldn't change the tone of her voice or the sharpness of her insults.

"Yes, Miss Aria," I called back, keeping my voice as steady as possible.

"Well, bring it to my room," she snapped. "Now."

I stood, wiping my damp hands on the hem of my worn dress, and hurried to the laundry room where the dresses hung neatly. Each one belonged to Aria-luxurious fabrics adorned with lace and delicate embroidery, dresses that I could never even dream of wearing.

My stepbrother, Matteo, lounging on the couch with his phone, gave me a smirk as I walked by.

"You missed a spot in the hallway," he said, not bothering to look away from his screen.

I clenched my teeth, ignoring him. Matteo loved to push my buttons, his taunts as constant as the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. He thrived on my silence, knowing I wouldn't dare to respond.

When I reached Aria's room, I found her sprawled on the bed, scrolling through her own phone. She didn't even acknowledge me as I entered, too engrossed in her latest gossip or online shopping spree.

"Leave it on the chair," she said without looking up.

I carefully laid the dress over the chair, smoothing out any wrinkles.

"You're so slow," she muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear. "No wonder no one wants you."

Her words stung, but I swallowed the lump in my throat and left the room without a word.

Back in the kitchen, I resumed scrubbing the floor, trying to push away the heavy cloud of resentment that hung over me.

This was my life-a life of servitude, dictated by Stepmother's sharp tongue, stepsister's selfishness, stepbrother's jeers, and my father's silent indifference.

My father, Diego, was the worst, in some ways. He wasn't cruel like Lady Marissa or dismissive like Miss Aria and Master Matteo, but his silence cut deeper than their words. He knew what they did to me-he saw it every day-and yet, he said nothing. He turned a blind eye to the way his wife and children treated me like a servant, as though I wasn't his daughter at all.

The truth was, his silence was louder than all their words combined. It screamed that I didn't matter, that I was an outsider in my own home.

I glanced out the window, where the midday sun cast its golden rays over the garden. For a brief moment, I let myself imagine a different life-a life where I wasn't trapped in this house, cleaning floors and ironing dresses for people who would never see me as more than an inconvenience.

But that life felt as distant as the horizon, unreachable and fading fast.